Detox
by AVMabs
Summary: In which Ethan has a night of side effects ahead of him and Cal is better at caring than either of them realise. Tag to Holby Sin City.


Ethan slumped forwards and rested his elbows on his knees. He'd managed to hail a taxi before the adrenaline had begun to wear off, but now that it had, he felt like his bones had softened into water, leaving his limbs floppy and heavy and bloated. A dull nausea pounded within him in time with the throb of his head.

His head hit the window. He straightened up and looked at the glass. He'd left a wet mark where the water had dripped from his – well, the old man's – hat into the front of his hair. He blinked at it and then raised a hand to his head. His fingers came off wet as well. He supposed it could have been worse. The hat was sopping.

The taxi pulled to a stop and Ethan jumped. That had seemed rather abrupt. He stared into the driver's mirror. The driver quirked an eyebrow towards the door. Ethan blinked out of the window.

Oh. That was his flat.

"Th-thank you," he said.

To his credit, the driver's smile only held an edge of irritation as he held a hand out for his money. Ethan's lips parted. His wallet, and his clothes, and his normal shoes and his phone and his briefcase and… and, quite a lot, he thought – he didn't have them with him. They were in the staffroom, still.

He glanced up at the driver. "Can I please get my wallet from inside?"

The driver sighed and rolled his eyes, but flicked his hand to the side in acquiescence. "Mate, next time you're off your head, find a designated driver."

"Yes, of course," he said. It was an attempt, really, not to lose his inhibitions in front of the driver who – if he discounted the comments – had been kind to him. At the very least, Ethan knew that if he was a taxi driver, he would not have let himself get into the cab.

Ethan got out of the cab, gripping its roof to steady himself as he jammed the hat back onto his head. He staggered to the front door of his flat and punched the code into the keypad with a trembling left hand. At least, he thought it was the code. Denied. He swallowed and took a deep breath and tried again. He relaxed. It was the right number.

He was proud of himself for getting it; numbers were almost beyond his comprehension. He certainly wasn't able to read at the moment.

He knocked on his flat door. More than once since he had moved, he had felt grateful to live in a ground floor flat. Coming home from hospital after that dreadful crash was one of them, getting back home after coming down with a nasty bout of norovirus at work was another. This, too, fit the bill. After about a minute of staring into the polished number on the door, he realised that nobody was coming out to answer. He knocked again, harder and louder this time, until he heard grumbling and thudding, and then it all stopped in front of Ethan and he heard a disdainful noise before the door opened on Caleb clutching his phone, looking as though someone had just poured ice on his neck to wake him up.

"What's this?" said Cal, his voice edging on frantic, though slurred from sleep. "What does Robyn mean – you've been drugged?"

Ethan raised his right hand to silence Cal and leaned his head on the doorframe; he didn't think he'd be able to make his way back over to the taxi driver if he had to focus his energy on staying upright. "Do you have a tenner?"

Cal frowned, his nose crinkling. "A tenner?"

Ethan nodded and made a small gesticulation towards the door with his hand. "For the taxi driver."

Cal nodded, but didn't budge. "Look, I'll go out and do that. You look like you're about to keel over."

For moment, Ethan opened his mouth to argue, but upon realising how spent he really felt he sighed and let Cal move aside. He collapsed onto the sofa, but the squeaky leather felt rubbery and unnatural and if the drug had made him feel violated before, this only made the feeling intensify. He felt as though his whole body had the same texture as a water balloon: malleable, bloated and fragile. Before he could stop himself, he let a low whine out of the back of his throat.

Cal spun around and stared at him, his face serious and pinched. "Are you okay?" he asked. There was an unusual urgency to his tone, but Ethan couldn't bring himself to deliberate on it.

"Yes," Ethan muttered, pressing his face into the leather with the idea that if he couldn't lift his head to get away from it, he might as well burrow further into it.

Cal's stare lingered a moment longer before he broke it off. He stuffed his feet into an old pair of trainers – he was always walking around the place in socks, much unlike Ethan, who loved a good pair of slippers – and pulled the door to.

The silence left Ethan alone with his thoughts, which were plentiful and active, like flies that had flocked to buzz around faeces. Faeces, he thought, was a good way of describing this mess. He couldn't believe how naïve he was, though attention had been called to that particular trait on more than one occasion. He felt sick, and he was sure that not all of it was to do with the drug.

He shivered and pulled the coat around him before realising that the wet coat was just making him colder, and that drops of water from the hat had gathered around the rim and were dribbling down his back. His breath caught for a moment before it all came through his nose in one long hiss. This year, he'd been sicker than this, yet without beeping to distract him and nurses to talk to and a steady stream of medication to anesthetise him, this occasion was rearing up to a close second.

He whined again, and raised a hand to undo the coat buttons. He fumbled with one, and then the second, his efforts routinely obstructed by the way his hand was trembling. He huffed and let his hand fall from the coat onto the wet leather of the sofa before he braced himself and pulled the hat off his head, dropping it to the floor. On a normal day, he'd be annoyed about the clutter and the trip hazard, but he was so preoccupied he couldn't bring himself to care very much about it.

The door pushed open, and Cal walked in. He still looked frantic, though he had toned it down to a lower key now, and his face didn't look quite as pinched as it had before.

"You okay?" he asked. "Can I do anything to help?"

Some colour flooded Ethan's nearly white cheeks as he blushed red and gave a sheepish nod. "Could you, um," he trailed off and had to take a deep breath. "Could you help with my coat, please?"

To his credit, Cal didn't laugh or make a snide comment at the request. He perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of Ethan and held a hand out to Ethan. "Alright," said Cal. "I'm gonna need you to sit up."

Ethan's body slumped into the sofa for a moment in resignation. This was already a terrible idea, and he hadn't even sat up yet. He glanced up at Cal. "Sorry," he murmured. "I think you should get a bowl before we try – the washing up one from the sink."

For a second, Cal looked surprised. Ethan didn't really understand why; he knew exactly what his brother was like after one or six too many, and it was much messier than this, most of the time. Ethan, at least, had not lost his inhibitions. Mercifully, Cal closed his mouth and left to retrieve the bowl. He came back two minutes later with an empty bowl and the surprising foresight of a glass of water. He set the glass and bowl down next to him and reached his arms out to Ethan.

"Come on, Ethan," he said, and gripped the middles of Ethan's forearms. Ethan did the same to Cal, though his grip was weak and his hands were clammy. With some difficulty, their combined effort managed to see Ethan to a near upright position, though he looked as though he might pass out at any second and his breathing definitely fit into the 'unfit nonagenarian' category.

Any colour that might have resided over Ethan's face escaped his grasp. He gagged and clamped a hand over his mouth. Cal's hand hit the bucket in his haste to get it onto Ethan's lap. Ethan swallowed and took a few shallow breaths through his nose before relaxing and pushing the unused bowl away.

"Water?" he gasped.

Within seconds, Cal had pushed the glass of water into Ethan's hands. Ethan took the minute sips of a starving man who knew his stomach would rebel if he didn't maintain adequate control of his urges. With a small gasp, he pushed the half-full glass back into Cal's hand.

"Okay?" asked Cal, giving Ethan a wary look.

Ethan nodded, being careful not to make it too various. His stomach was still delicate, and – though he had barely comprehended it in his haze at the time – he had a vague memory of throwing up in the toilets at the police station and returning to Robyn and Iain's concerned stares.

Cal started on the buttons and then stopped and stared up at Ethan, a frown playing on his features. "This isn't your coat," he said.

Ethan shrugged. "'S a patient's," he muttered.

Cal made a good fist at swallowing the flies he had caught with his gawp. "You're going to return it, right? What if he makes a complaint?"

"He won't," said Ethan.

Cal blinked. "How can you be so sure?" He stopped and stared. "Hang on; you haven't left some poor bloke to stagger through the rain without a coat, have you?"

Ethan shook his head, and then bolted upright, his mouth once again flying to his mouth. "Bowl," he gulped. Cal had beaten him to the post.

Ethan gagged and retched.

"Alright," said Cal, in a noble attempt to soothe his brother. He was unsure of quite what he was supposed to do with his hands, so he braced one on the glass of water and shoved the other one into his dressing gown pocket.

After what seemed like an age and a half, Ethan finished throwing up, gasping and spitting into the bowl. He tipped his head back against the sofa and allowed a light moan to escape him. A single tear was snaking its way down his face despite his best efforts to keep himself under control, but he didn't raise a hand to wipe it away. The vomiting had clearly taken a lot out of him; Cal didn't think it would surprise him if he found out that Ethan had racked up some kind of debt after being so ill in one night – and he didn't even know the full details yet. There were more immediate things to deal with, like the bowl of sick. He stared down at it and wrinkled his nose. His eyes widened.

"Is that coffee ground vomit?" he demanded.

Ethan opened one eye. "No," he murmured. "'S just coffee." He whined as if in preparation for speaking again. "Sh-she put the stuff – the drug – in there."

Cal rested both hands on Ethan's knees. "She? Who?"

Ethan shook his head. "Later, Cal. I'm tired," he moaned.

Cal sighed in concession. "Alright," he said. "Stay awake for me, and then we'll get you to bed. Yeah?"

Ethan grunted his acquiescence and opened both eyes. He stared up at the ceiling. Everything was unfocussed. His white ceiling had taken on black spots, and if they didn't stop moving soon, Ethan thought he was going to have to close his eyes again. His mind wandered. Two patient deaths in one night, not to mention… He wished he could stop his thoughts from racing through his head like they did. It was dizzying and disgusting. He felt violated, though he had not taken the brunt of this mess.

"Ethan?"

Ethan rolled his head forward and blinked. "Mm?"

Cal squeezed his shoulder. "We can get you to bed now, mate," he said, pointing down to a haphazard pile of fabric on the floor.

Ethan managed a weak smile. He sat forward and rested his torso on his knees. He frowned. "What did you do with the bowl?"

Cal pointed to a bowl on the coffee table. "You're a bit out of it."

"Oh," said Ethan, and then held out an arm to Cal. "I need you to help me to get up."

Cal nodded and gripped Ethan's elbows. Getting him upright was a struggle, to say the least. He was woozy and unsteady, and by the time he was standing he'd had to use the bowl again. Cal was taking most of his weight.

Even after a two week hospital stay, it had never taken Ethan five minutes to stagger to his bedroom. He broke out of Cal's grip and collapsed onto the bed. It was much softer and gentler than the sofa had been, and he made a long noise of contentment.

Cal snorted. "Take your shoes off, Ethan," he said.

Ethan blinked his eyes open and stared up at Cal. "Not today," he said, and drew his knees up to his chest. He'd worry about the muddy stains on his mattress cover later, when he didn't feel like he could die at any moment.

Cal laughed again, audibly this time, and turned Ethan's light off. "I'll be in the living room if you need me, alright?"

Ethan grunted his acquiescence. He just wanted to sleep. The door clicked closed, leaving a slit of light to filter under the door. He relaxed. And then he tensed up again. Somehow, when he was horizontal and the materials around him weren't pervasive and he wasn't trying to keep half an eye on Cal, his mind wouldn't stop running through the shift: if Hanssen hadn't worked downstairs for the night, what would have happened? If he hadn't been stupid enough to actually drink the coffee…

He squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could in an attempt to exorcise the thoughts. It worked, for a second, but apparently exorcising thoughts of the day left him open to thoughts about the past 10 months. He could scarcely imagine what it must have been like for Bonnie to go through that she had, but… He took a deep breath. He had offered Bonnie practical help, and she didn't take it. Other doctors had tried. There was nothing more he could have done – and still, he felt responsible.

And then there was that other snag. The way that his mind kept telling him that Clyde was a bad person. Bad people always ended up subject to karma. He pressed his head into the pillow. The idea of karma was ridiculous to him. Well, it wasn't – but Ethan had always been taught not to place much stock in religious ideas. He was a firm agnostic – and that was only under a loose grip on Pascal's wager.

He sighed, put his glasses on and pressed the snooze button on his alarm clock. It lit up, but he couldn't comprehend what any of the numbers meant.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, and didn't regret it that much when the room started spinning. At this point, he would take the physical discomfort over the mental discomfort. Bracing himself, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He squared his feet. Shoulder width apart for a good anchor into the ground, knees bent. He slid into a standing position for about a second before collapsing onto the floor in an unceremonious heap of blue scrub. He lay on the ground for a moment, feeling sorry for himself, before placing both hands on the edge of his bed. His bedroom door flew open.

"What happened?" asked Cal. The edge to his voice had returned.

Ethan stared up at him. "What time is it?"

"About half three," said Cal, and kneeled next to him. He placed one hand on Ethan's shoulder, and another on his back. "Why did you get up?"

"Couldn't sleep," murmured Ethan. "Can we watch the news, please?"

Cal's face was a picture of bafflement, but after a moment, he conceded. He slung one of Ethan's arms over his shoulder and gripped his ribcage. A part of him thought that perhaps it was a bit over the top to be taking quite such measures, but as his brother was clearly an actual idiot masquerading as an intellectual, he had every right to be worried.

With Ethan – sans trainers, now, after he'd stepped on Cal's bare foot in his directionless stagger – deposited onto the sofa, Cal curled up in an armchair and turned the television on. He was more than a bit confused as to why the news seemed so important to him, but tonight had been eventful and draining for both of him, so he could hardly blame Ethan for being a bit weird – weirder than usual.

He watched with vague disinterest as various bits of world news flicked over the screen. He'd be a bit more interested at eight in the morning, but at the moment he was exhausted and confused, and a part of him – a tiny one that he was going to clamp down on – felt the smallest bit annoyed at Ethan for causing him so much stress and worry.

He glanced up at the television. His jaw dropped. He pointed up at it. "Isn't that…"

Ethan nodded. "Shh, Cal. I need to hear this."

Caleb blinked at the television screen. This was a lot to take in. Bits of information washed over him. "Dangerous", "Murder", "Fiancé", "Cassandra", "Walk", "Five-foot six"…

"Appears to have fled the country."

Ethan let out a moan of disdain from the sofa. If he'd looked ill before, Cal didn't know how to describe how he looked now. His face had blanched so that his skin looked chalky and dry under his soft, bright scrubs.

"Ethan?"

Ethan shook his head. This was ridiculous, he thought and – in spite of himself – a lump was beginning to form in the back of his throat. He pulled his glasses off with shaking hands and dropped them onto the floor. If that had been Cal, on a different day and under different circumstances, he might have described such behaviour as callous disregard for someone else's belongings. It wasn't Cal, though, and he didn't have room in his mind to consider his own hypocrisy at the moment.

"Was it her, Ethan?"

Ethan looked over at Cal, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He hoped Cal understood. He didn't trust himself to explain it. He hardly trusted himself to be able to keep his emotions in check _without_ speaking. He could at least banish Cal from the room first so that he could control himself without a spectator.

"Um," said Ethan, his voice gravelly and tight. "Could you get me a g-glass of water please?" His voice broke, and he bit down on his lip. Without glasses, it was a quiet relief that he couldn't see Cal's exact expression. He could bet it was the worried one where his mouth dropped open and his eyes grew wide and helpless. He pressed a hand to his cheekbone and took several deep breaths.

He could hear footsteps circling the room, and then he felt something rough and papery being pressed into his hand.

"There was only kitchen roll," said Cal. A hint of apology slipped into his tone.

Ethan drew it across his face. "S'fine," he said. "Sorry." He let Cal squeeze his shoulder. He was grateful for the comfort. If Cal asked about it, he'd make up some nonsense about Cal's hand being warm.

Cal's heart sunk as a squeaking sob escaped Ethan's chest. He had a better idea of what was going on, now, and couldn't imagine how awful Ethan's night must have been. It must have been horrible for Ethan to be in tears. The last time he had cried in front of anyone, Cal recalled, was at the nursing home after their mother had died. He knew it wasn't the only time: there had been red rimmed eyes and a blotchy face more than once – but Ethan was very good at keeping himself in check.

Cal didn't know what to do. He turned the TV off and sustained his grip on Ethan's shoulder. "Bad night?" he asked.

Ethan pulled the strip of kitchen roll – now rumpled and damp – away from his face just long enough send a watery glare in Cal's direction.

A small smile played on Cal's lips. "Stupid question, sorry."

Ethan said nothing. He'd always been a quiet crier – but then, so had Cal. It was a trait they both shared with their father, who had spoken little and cried little. Their mother's rare cries had been noisy and anguished, and Caleb could only remember three incidents in which she had given herself to her grief in front of him. The only sign that Ethan was still crying was the way his back was tensing and arching.

Cal tucked his hand behind Ethan's ear and glazed over its rim with his thumb. Ethan stared up at him, and Cal removed it and clenched his trouser leg with it. Embarrassment rose in his stomach, and his cheeks began to flush pink. "Sorry," he muttered. Cal was hardly their mother – of course it was stupid to consider taking the same actions as her.

Ethan touched his hand to Cal's wrist. "Carry on?" he asked, his eyes having taken on a strange pleading glimmer.

Cal hesitated for a moment and then relaxed into the routine. This part of comfort seemed to come easily to him – far more so than any verbal offerings he'd ever tried. He normally left the comforting to the nurses; offering up kind words and sympathy was their job, and Cal was – first and foremost – a technical man, used to using analytical thinking and clever sleight of hand to save lives.

Cal stared down at Ethan. His breathing had begun to even out, and his eyes had fallen closed. Cal smiled and withdrew his hand. That was one less thing to worry about for the night. He stood up and threw a blanket over Ethan before staggering to his own room.

He had to be up for the day shift in an hour and a half.


End file.
